


Words You Don't Know

by Laetitia_Laetitii



Series: Aileen Westbrook [10]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Gen, Mahjarrat, Missing Presumed Death, World Guardian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:53:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laetitia_Laetitii/pseuds/Laetitia_Laetitii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While waiting for the beginning of Sliske's Grand Ascendancy, World Guardian discusses the nuances of the Freneskaean language with an expert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words You Don't Know

  
  Sometimes, usually during the late hours of the night, I had wondered if there was a collective noun for the children of Mah, and had now settled on one: an argument. An argument of Mahjarrat.  
  
  Having spent prolonged amounts of time with many of their kind, I had noticed a certain pattern among them: unless the situation was acutely life-threatening, the main form of communication between them seemed to be constant, ceaseless, low-key bickering. Even with those who were allies, who ran a common cause and trusted each other as deeply as their race could, consensus was as fleeting as safety on Freneskae.  
  
  No representatives of the remaining Guthixians seemed to have been invited to the Ascension, and so I had fallen in with my second choice, the Zarosians. Grateful for company at that strange gathering, I had retired with them to one side of the central yard of the Citadel. Standing around it at carefully calculated intervals were the other envoys, all eyeing each other with barely contained hostility. Between us and the great double doors stood a guard of wights, their shadowy forms barely visible in the late afternoon sun.  
  
 For the past fifteen minutes I had been silent, listening to what passed as friendly banter between Mahjarrat. To a human, it came across as quarrell, contrariness, and occasional blood libel. Immersed in thought, I was suddenly torn out to catch the end of Azzanadra’s last sentence:

 “That mask said the ceremonies would start at sundown”, he said, contempt dripping from every syllable. “But knowing your _–modulated growl ending in a hiss_ –of a brother, it might be three hours later, or not at all.”  
  
  “He may be my brother”, countered Wahisietel dryly, “but you're the one fool enough to still count him as an ally. And frankly, you have little business calling anyone a _growl-hiss.”_  
  
  At the last remark, Azzanadra’s head whipped around faster than a Jaldraocht floor trap, and whatever the snarl coming out of his mouth meant, I would have readily translated it as “Oh, really?” What followed between them was a short exchange of growls, snarls, and strange consonant-clusters that rose into a bark, and then abruptly ended in a final prolonged sibilant from Wahisietel and a rather universal snort from Azzanadra. Case closed, they both resumed their original stances, standing side by side, arms folded, their eyes fixed at the Zamorakians.  

  “And however you look at it, the situation was rather different then”, said Azzanadra, but his tone was conciliatory.  
  
   Wishing to stay out of whatever had been passing between them, I had taken a few steps back and found myself side by side with Akthanakos. As usual, he seemed to be somewhat apart from the other two, and surveyed the world around him as if he did not have much to do with it. He was a being whose reasons were his own, whether in regards to staying loyal to a fallen leader, or preferring the company of camels to that of his own kind. Unlike his brothers, he had hardly commented on my siding with the Guthixians in the chambers, and perhaps that was why I felt comfortable opening the conversation:

  “I was under the impression that weaker Mahjarrat were supposed to defer to their strongers.”  
  
 “They are,” Akthanakos replied. “You mean that?” he said, gesturing at the pair in front of us. “That’s nothing, just -  _starts with l, ends in a death-rattle._ The laws and rules you speak of refer to _(screech-growl)_ , not _l-rattle-word.”_  
  
  I pondered on this for a while. Then, sensing neither hostility nor suspicion on his part, I ventured again:

  “Akthanakos, what’s a-”  I tried to imitate the first word he had used.  
  
  “There’s no such thing, World Guardian,” he said, not a small trace of amusement in his voice, “but _l-rattle-word_ means social talk that will not truly affect decision-making.  Small-talk. Banter. As long as you do not question the honour and courage of the person you are addressing, any old amount of disagreement and basic insulting is only to be expected. It doesn't do for a Mahjarrat to agree too much when engaged in  _llrchheccheurgh_ , it would not only be considered a sign of weakness, but boring as well.”  
  
  It was perhaps the longest speech I had ever heard him make, but he did not seem to mind.

  “None of you ever disagree with or insult _me_ too much,” I remarked.  
  
  “Humans are different,” he answered outright. “You function differently, you speak differently, and at any rate the whole practice of showing _short screech_ during _l-rattle_ is all about solidifying the tribal hierarchy, and there’s no use in mixing up your lot in that. Not my definition, mind you, but that of someone who died before the Betrayal, Nabor.”  
  
_“Screech?”_ I asked.  
  
  “That’s uncalled for,” Akthanakos said, leaning against the handrail. But   _s_ _hort screech_ means purposefully getting in the face of your superiors when discussing matters of little consequence. Its counterpart is _(low snarl)_ , meaning letting your weakers get away with _screech_ and not getting worked up about it. Of course, that only applies to _l-rattle-word.”_  
  
  “And the other one?” I asked, still inspecting the backs of Azzanadra and Wahisietel, who seemed to be carrying on their rambling conversation, now in Infernal. Behind our backs, the sun had reached the low western sky, and the clouds above the Citadel  were beginning to colour violet and rose.  
  
  _“Screech-growl?_ That means serious matters, namely making any decisions that affect the safety of the individual or the tribe. On Freneskae it was mainly the Rituals, raids and warfare, or moving the camp. Anything, in fact, that might result in violence. When it comes to _screech-growl,_ the strongest of the tribe speak and decide, and the weaker ones hear and obey. If they do not, it usually ends in a fight, a Ritual of Rejuvenation, or both.”  
  
 I leaned my back against the rail beside him, trying not to think of the mile-long drop behind it.

 “And so far this has all been the first type?” I asked, though I knew the answer.  
  
  “Yes. But before the night is over, if I know anything of Sliske and all those present,” his eyes fixed for a moment on the form of Enakhra, silhouetted against the darkening sky, “we will have the need for the latter kind of talk.” For a moment, he tensed visibly.  
  
 Uncomfortable with the sudden change, I asked one more question to distract him:

 “Akthanakos, what’s a _long-growl-hiss?”_  
  
  Snapping out, he turned to look at me.

  “Who taught you that word?”

  I pointed forward, indicating Azzanadra, who judging by the tone of his voice was riled up about something again.

  “He used it about Sliske, and Wahisietel seemed to find it hypocritical, if I understood correctly.”  
  
  “I’ll not comment on that,” he said, though I noticed the corners of his mouth were twitching. “But a _growl-hiss_ , stress on the last syllable, is a generic insult, but literally means someone who makes themselves useful to their higher-ups in order to gain protection at the next Ritual.”  
  
  “I thought all of you did that,” I said.  
  
  “Everyone does. But a _growl-hiss_ does it in a manner that’s obvious, desperate, and plainly betrays his fear of winding up on the Marker. Mind you, while there are few words bad enough for Sliske, he never was a literal _growl-hiss_ , because every time he was threatened, he simply went off into the Deep Shadow Realm until things quietened down again. Even back then, his unparalleled skill with shadow-walking almost ridded him of the need to practice politics, and if he’s done what he says he has, he’ll never need to get into any of it again.”  
  
 I considered his words, suddenly feeling exposed to more than the death-drop behind the rail. With the sun all but gone, the wind had grown strong and cold, and I wrapped my cloak more tightly around myself The Barrows Wights were now clearly visible, and across the yard the eyes of the Zamorakians glinted in the twilight.  
  
  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a green light flash at the entrance platform. Out of the dark walked a familiar figure, the long-limbed gait slightly awkward, the pointy ears twitching alertly. I heard Azzanadra mutter something disparaging.  
  
  Ignoring him, I straightened myself up, and turned to Akthanakos.

  “I believe it is time,” I said, suddenly acutely aware of the sense of being torn between many old allies, all of whom I owed something, and none of whom I trusted in full.  
  
  “So it seems, World Guardian,” he answered,  his voice as relaxed as ever. “Stay on your guard. There's no telling what Sliske will try, but I doubt it is for the good of anyone but himself.”  
  
 “Neither do I,” I said, and for a moment in my mind, light flashed from a godstaff, and Guthix threw his head back in a final, terribly echoing howl.  
  
 “Good luck, then,” Akthanakos added. “Or -  _an elongated growl, a trill, followed by a hissing snort -_ In the common tongue, 'May your enemies never see you arrive, and may their bodies rot where you found them.'”  
  
  In that situation his words were more reassuring than gruesome, and they stayed with me as the great double doors swung open.


End file.
